


Until There's Nothing Left of Us

by moodymarshmallow



Series: The Elf and the Apostate [5]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:29:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On why you don't call the Warden-Commander a "knife-ear."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until There's Nothing Left of Us

The Crown and Lion wasn’t the worst taproom that Theron had ever ended up in; it was fairly clean, the people were courteous, and it only  _just_  smelled like Mabari. For Ferelden, that was an impressive feat. The food was fine, the fire warm, and nobody seemed to pay much attention to the elf and the apostate sitting at a corner table, drinking and talking in conspiratorial tones.   **  
  
** They could have had ale at the Keep just as easily, but Anders had cooked up this fool notion that they ought to go out, get away from the Keep for a short time while the excitement had died down, just the two of them. Theron didn’t see the necessity, all this meant was a knowing glance from the waitress rather than the servants at the Keep, and that Anders could wiggle his eyebrows and call it a  _date_ . It was charming—awful, but charming. **  
  
** Admittedly, it was nice to pretend to not be the Warden-Commander for a few hours, to be an elf, to be a man, to be something other than the Hero of Ferelden. It was sweet and alluring to have a whole tavern see him the way Anders did; as Theron. Not that anyone looked at him quite the way Anders did, not that he’d want him to. He had fallen in love with dark amber and honey, with the cool cast of the moon on his skin and the silk of his lips.   
 **  
** A bowl of stew and three pints later and Theron was silly, letting Anders take his hand and trace the grooves and calluses, telling him how he’d learned to read lifelines in Kinloch Hold, making suggestive comments about how  _long_  and  _robust_  Theron’s loveline was. Theron snorted with laughter as Anders snuck his fingers into his cuff and up his forearm, massaging lightly. It was so right that it was almost normal. **  
  
** Then the Templar saw them.   
  
Even after a few pints, Theron could still pick up the sound of a mouse in the walls if he needed to, so the noise of a Templar clanking angrily across the room was not a difficult one to hear. The man pushed past one of the waitresses, firelight glinting off of his burnished silver armour as he closed in on their table. Anders raised a wary eyebrow at Theron, who put his mug to his lips and finished the dregs. **  
  
** “I recognize you.” The Templar’s voice was poisonous; it matched his face. He had small, wide-set, dark eyes and a wide, humourless mouth.   
  
“Well you ought to,” Anders said, his jovial tone masking the recognition that Theron saw in his eyes. “He’s the Warden-Commander of Ferelden, real important fellow.”   
  
“Not him, Anders.” The Templar barely registered Theron’s presence. “I’d heard you’d escaped again. I’m surprised you’d show your face after they found Ser Rylock dead here in Amaranthine.”  
  
“Ser Rylock attacked me and my company. I was forced to defend myself; it was unfortunate, but she shouldn’t have raised a blade to the Wardens.” Theron got to his feet, not that he was terribly imposing next to the Templar, who was head and shoulders taller than him, as well as outweighing him by a great measure.   
  
“And who, exactly, are you?”   
 **  
** “Theron Mahariel, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, as you were informed once already.” Theron locked eyes with the snake-like man, taking a step to stand between him and Anders. “The man you’re accusing is also a Grey Warden, and therefore under my protection. You have no authority here.”   
  
“That man is a murderer and an apostate!” Other patrons were starting to become disturbed, to stare into the corner and mumble to one another in stage whisper, preparing for a fight.   
  
“I killed Ser Rylock,” Theron said. “Did you not notice the arrow wounds, or is your perception as poor as your hearing?” Anders made a muffled snorting noise from behind Theron, trying desperately not to laugh as the Templar started to go red in the face. **  
  
** “I am not going to stand here and let some knife-ear tell me that I cannot do my Maker-given duty to take this apostate to justice. Stand aside or I will go through you to get him.”   
  
“Call me knife-ear again, shemlen.” Theron’s voice had dropped and Anders realized he had braced himself the way he did when he was ready to draw an arrow.   
  
The Templar sneered and leaned down, getting in Theron’s face. “No filthy knife-ear tells me what to—” Anders tried to grab Theron’s arm when he pulled it back, but Theron was too quick. There was a sickening crack as Theron’s fist connected with the Templar’s nose. The man stumbled to his knees, lifting a shaking hand to his face before his eyes rolled back and he fell the rest of the way. **  
  
** “Andraste’s ass, Theron!” Anders stood, staring in disbelief at the unconscious Templar at Theron’s feet. He stumbled slightly when Theron grabbed his wrist and started dragging him out of the Crown and Lion. He followed as Theron stormed out of the city, ranting excitedly about the look on the man’s face and how he’ll never live down being cold-cocked by an elf. They started running, and didn’t stop until they were halfway back to the Keep, when Theron sunk to the side of the road, panting raggedly.   
  
“I can’t believe you punched him,” Anders said for the twentieth time as he sat next to him, putting an arm around his shoulders and kissing his temple. “My big bloody hero.” He fondly stroked Theron’s sweat-damp hair out of his eyes.   
 **  
** “I think I broke my hand.” Theron was calm, but he was right, the middle and ring finger on his right hand were at wrong, jagged angles, and his knuckles were bleeding profusely. Anders immediately clasped his wrist and pulled him closer, using one practiced hand to check the bones. Theron hissed as Anders, his hands glowing iridescent blue, slowly, painfully reset and healed the fingers. It was a long process, done delicately so that Theron would lose no motion and have no scars. When he was finished, Anders took his hand to his lips and kissed his newly smooth knuckles.  **  
  
** “Maker’s breath, I love you,”  Anders said softly, still trying to process the fact that Theron, quiet, reserved Theron, had punched a Templar. For him. He gathered him into his arms, trying not to laugh at the absurd wonder of it all. He failed. Laughing, he pressed his lips to Theron’s hair, feeling alive, whole and free for once in his life. “Maker’s breath, I do love you.” Anders repeated himself, loosening his grip on Theron so he could wriggle away if he wanted to.   
  
Theron tilted to kiss Anders on the nose, cupping one side of his face with his healed hand. “For you, I am Mythal,” he said in a low, thick voice.  
  
“Mythal?” Anders furrowed his brow, trying to remember what little he had read about Elven gods and goddesses. “I don’t understand…” **  
  
** “The Protector.” Theron closed his eyes. “ _Ma emma vhanen_ —you are my heart, and you shall have no fear so long as I am at your side.” Color rose on Anders’ cheeks as he let that sink in, as he let it mix with all of the memories of laying awake in the middle of the night at Kinloch Hold, wanting to run until he couldn’t see the tower on the horizon anymore, wanting to wake up in the middle of the night to have someone, some perfect person, take his hand and drag him from there.  **  
  
** “And how long will that be?” Anders asked softly, resting his forehead against Theron’s.   
  
“Until there’s nothing left of us.”


End file.
